god Has A Plan (alternate Battlestar Galactica (RDM))

Prelude

Mangala, Kansas, United States of America
Eight days before the Invasion

The pastor of Mangala Baptist Fellowship climbed up on the ladder and began dusting the large, wooden cross. 

Designed to be the most prominent object in the sanctuary of the small Southern Baptist church, the cross had outlasted 21 different pastors and eight generations of Christian believers. It was there when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, when the Allies marched through Nazi Berlin and captured Adolf Hitler, when Neil Armstrong became the first human to walk on the moon, when Sekiou Armistad became the first human to walk on Mars, and when the Long Terror finally ended with the Treaty of Geneva.

The pastor was the 22nd man -- in America, especially now, all officially sanctioned pastors were only men -- to stand in the pulpit of the venerable church. He chose this church -- well, he always added the qualifier that God led him here -- but he would then add that he always wanted to pastor this church because the small town an hour west of Wichita was named after the large Colonial metropolis he grew up in. The pastor -- "Padre", he told folks to call him -- was a folksy, amiable sort, the kind of man who wouldn't necessarily be the centre of attraction but everybody liked. He preached good sermons, in the tradition of the Presbyterian pastor and radio host Steve Brown, and was always around whenever someone wanted to talk.

Unlike the entrepreneur/campus pastor of the LifeChurch branch next to Wal-Mart, or the more reserved pastors of First Baptist and First United Methodist churches, the pastor of MBF had no problem with talking to anyone who wandered in. So when a scruffy, homeless blond-haired man limped in, the pastor's first act was to greet him. 

Then, the pastor looked around to make sure no one else was there -- he had sent his secretary home early -- and then he said a very un-Christian word. 

"Frak," he uttered, very much annoyed at his appearance. "I told you never to show up here. Do you want to blow my cover???"

"Do you have a fumarello?", the scruffy visitor replied, shaking lightly and waggling his fore- and index fingers.

"They call them cigars here, but you're talking about a cigarette." The pastor gave him a lookover and was disgusted with what he saw -- and smelled. "You've probably had enough cigarettes to kill a horse. Besides, smoking is illegal in this state."

"Tell that to the men at that garage I walked past on the way here."

"You should've asked them for a cigarette."

"I did ask. They ridiculed me instead and told me to 'get a job'. C-can I please have a fumarello? I know you have a pack stashed away."

"How in the hells do you--" The pastor sighed and waved his guest over. "C'mon...follow me." 

The pastor led his guest out of the sanctuary and out the side door. They were behind the small house the pastor used as his parsonage, and there was nothing but a garage and Kansas farmland behind them; unless someone drove in and parked in front of the garage, no one would see the jittery homeless man leaning up against the church building.

"Wait here, I'll be back in a minute," the pastor said. A minute later, he came out with a pack of Lucky Strikes. "Kentucky, vintage 2018, or 21355, depending on which false god you follow," he said, handing the pack and a book of matches to his guest.

"Y-you bring me out here so none of them would hear you spout off heresy?", the visitor said as he lit one of the cigarettes. He took a draw and inhaled; he relaxed a bit as he blew smoke rings towards the very annoyed pastor. "You're not being very pastoral, you know."

"You're not acting very smart. This nation has eyes everywhere! You're on 50 different watch lists somewhere in Washington, D.C. alone. You're on the American, Colonial and Interpol Most Wanted Lists. That--"

"Don't forget Britain: MI-5 and MI-6. But I'm just a simple bomb-maker."

"You blew up Union Station in New fracking York! And a hotel in Scorpia, and a soccer stadium in Manchester, and an airport terminal in Munich--"

"All in a day's -- or days -- work. And Old Traford was...old, as the joke went, when I read it on the dark web."

The pastor looked at him with disgust.

"Hey, I laughed," the visitor said, clearly calmed by the second cigarette he was puffing away on. 

The pastor knocked the cigarette out of his mouth and grabbled him by his dirty jacket collar. "Do you want to blow what we've worked for before we can even begin"

"Come on!", the guest protested. "What I did made a ton of money for the cause."

"How much of a cut did you take for yourself?"

"A little bit."

The pastor sighed again, and let loose his grip. "You're pathetic. Your...twin is worried sick over this. He can't believe you'd be capable of what you've...done."

"He always was too spiritual. Has he had any more visions?"

The Padre ignored the jib. "The others can't, either. That includes me."

"I wouldn't think of blowing you or them up...you know, I always offer my services to you and the others, pro bono. If you ever want to get rid of your competition--"

"You act like you have all the time in the frakkin' world," the pastor said. "Things are happening. When's the last time you checked your texts?"

"I ditched the phone."

"You ditched....son of a frakkin' bitch. The phone? The secure phone we gave you?"

"Only one I had...hey! I was on the run after the Old Traford bombing. You want it that bad, I'll show you the loch in Scotland I dumped it in."

The pastor quietly uttered every American and Colonial profanity he knew, plus a few he picked up during a missionary trip to Siberia. 

"Shit's about to go down," the pastor said. "Colonial Fleet HQ and Army Central are in the final stages of planning for an attack on the United States. The Pentagon is in the final stages of planning an attack on the Colonies."

The visitor put the third cigarette he was about to light up back in the pack. "They're that far along?"

"Which you would've known had you bothered to read your damn texts!"

"I thought...I thought we had years. My sources would've heard something--"

"Everybody's keeping this on the down low: element of surprise," the pastor said. "Except part of each nation's military protocols are to be ready for war at any time. They're getting ready, for sure. Everything we've ever worked for is about to fall into our laps, so that means we have to be ready, too."

"God has a plan."

"What?!?"

"God's about to bless us."

"Jesus....you sound just like her. Leo. God, the gods, don't exist. We do. And if something doesn't frak all this up, things are about to look up for us. No...go in the house, take a long shower for gods' sake. I'll start making some chili, and I'll lay some clothes out for you."

"Thanks, John...I could use a good night's sleep, by the way."

"Sleep in the truck. I want to be on the road by midnight and in Dallas by sunrise. Less locals around to see us, that way."

According to the Kobolian religion, life began long ago...out there...in space.

Scientific and archeological findings suggest some sort of emigration from southern Europe, specifically Greece, circa 1st century B.C. This is consistent with Colonial historical accounts of the founding of Kobol over 2,000 years (yahren) ago, and the split of the continent into 13 tribes -- one of which left for parts unknown and never returned [1]. The Colonials knew of Europe, but as stevep suggested, they were in fact isolationist; although attempts were made to explore the world (as with the Saggitarons), they always returned.

The Spaniards who discovered North America in the late 15th century took a northern route, just above Virgon (but out of eyesight of Virgon land and ships), due to legends of "sea monsters" in the southern ocean. This trip was about getting to the Indies (and the direct route to China and India); legends could wait. Of course, Columbus discovered the Caribbean in 1492.

In 1493, Columbus took a straighter route, accompanied by a formidable Spanish armada in case the sea monsters were real. Instead, they discovered Caprica Bay. Only the good will of Columbus and certain people from the Caprican government kept war from breaking out; instead, it marked the opening of the Colonies to the greater world.

Sagittaron maps describing what we know as North America were shared with the Spanish with the caveat they also would be freely shared with the rest of Europe (and, if warranted, any group from the Americas, China, India and elsewhere). Caprica began trading with Spain. The English arrived, the Capricans pointed the way west, and Cabot re-discovered the North American east coast. The Colonies debated sending their own exploratory groups west, but decided that the Europeans could have the Americas if they wanted them.

History proceeded ITTL largely as it did IOTL, although trade routes had to adjust to account for the Kobolian continent in the central Atlantic. The Colonies allied themselves with western Europe and the United States, while desegrating at a lightning-fast pace compared to the rest of the western world. The Colonies also beat the rest of the west in just about every social category: slavery was banned by the time of the French Revolution; when American John Brown (partly inspired by Gemenese and Sagittarian abolitionists) was organizing armed resistance at Harpers Ferry, Sagittaron eliminated the last of its Jim Crow laws, putting it in line with the other 11 colonies; gays and lesbians had full rights by the time the U.S. Civil War broke out. Oscar Wilde went to Caprica, and took back such terms as "gendergay" and "allsexual" to a country that wasn't ready for such things (Wilde chose to stay in England, for the sake of others like himself).

Christianity came to Kobol, as did Judaism and Islam and Buddhism and other non-Kobolian religions. Even today, only 9 percent of the total population in the UCK (Colonials and non-Colonials) consider themselves Christians of any kind; there are more Gemenese fundamentalists than Christians total. Judaism is at 2 percent, Islam (all types) 1.4 percent. Buddhism is at 6 percent. Other religions combined, 3 percent. So that leaves 52 percent of Colonials as atheists/non-religious, and the remainder as believers in what is called by outsiders as "the Colonial religion".

By the beginning of the 20th century, the Colonials were fully open to the world, and were beginning to "encourage" the West to give up their own colonial holdings. The Colonies have done more than any other western nation to build up the post-colonial goverments in Africa and Asia, and in so doing put themselves sometimes into conflict with their allies (and the corporations influencing the allies' policies).

Oh, yeah. There's one other thing.

The space race.

Caprica got to the moon in 1971, a year behind the Soviets and about two behind the U.S. Unlike the Soviets, the Russians and the Americans, the Capricans stayed there. There's a Mars mission, planned for 2021, and subsequent missions planned for the asteroid belt, for Europa, and eventually Titan.

[1] Conventional wisdom is the "13th Tribe" headed east into Europe and assimilated into the local population.

Part Three
Somewhere in Caprica

In an oceanside mansion that he used, free of charge, courtesy of a Caprican politician, Gaius Baltar lie on his couch in his robe, watching the Colonial news channels with great interest, like a commoner sitting in their jersey and underwear would watch a domestic or international pyramid match.

--Colonial forces have been confirmed to have touched down inside Washington, D.C.--

--Colonial Air Force fighting alongside their Canadian counterparts over the Maritimes--

--NATO air units heading to the Balkans to intercept U.S. forces heading into Italy--

--British Royal Navy units assisting Colonial forces in the North Atlantic--

She hovered over the couch, reaching over and touching his chest ever so slightly. "Gaius, don't bother yourself with all of this. Relax. You've earned your rest."

"This is how I'm resting," he said to the blonde woman, not bothering to turn his eyes from the four 4K TV sets set up in a giant rectangle. "I'm curious to see how my work will be of use to the military."

"You've given the military the ability to shut the enemy down," she said, moving her fingers further down his body. "I've always wanted to visit Miami, or Las Vegas. I'd imagine either would be much more fun under Colonial rule."

Baltar turned to look at her directly. "Nonsense."

"Really?", she purred. "They'd be more fun under the Gemenese than they are now."

"I meant, the Colonials won't occupy America. Adar will force terms on them and install a friendly government. America's too big and there are too many of its citizens who don't want to change their minds. Adar will let the Canadians and British and the rest of NATO deal with it."

"Perhaps God will do what the President or his allies won't."

Baltar rolled his eyes. "You on that 'God' business again? There's no evidence for the Lords of Kobol. There surely isn't any evidence for the Abrahamic variety, either."

"I never mentioned the 'Abrahamic variety'. God is...different than any of the gods on this planet. And He has His own agenda."

"I hope that includes a quick end to this war, then," Baltar said, turning his attention back to the TV sets. "I don't think a prolonged war would be good for me--"

He felt a sudden tightening of his nether regions, a feminine hand with decidedly masculine, almost inhuman, strength.

"Do not mock God. Ever," she said, only then relaxing her hold. After allowing Baltar to catch his breath, she continued speaking. "Now, turn those sets off. You can catch up on current events later. Now, let me make you feel much better."

Baltar never could resist her 'come hither' look, and followed her like a puppy in heat to the bedroom.

Part Five
Washington, D.C.

In just over an hour, Marine Sgt. Connors' unit had retreated from Constitution Avenue back to Pennsylvania Avenue; the robot soldiers or whatever the hell the pagans had built had driven them back and were already on the verge of knocking on front door of the White House.

The gladiator-looking metal behemoths -- what else would you call a robot as tall as Anthony Davis and as big as Bill Goldberg, just not human? -- had already taken the lives of 18 of Connors' men and God knew how many hundreds (thousands?) more across the D.C. war zone. The Washington Monument had fallen, not by enemy hands but from one of dozens of Javelin missiles fired at the Colonial floating ship that had warped -- for lack of a better term -- right next to the monument.

Connors wanted his men and himself -- and that included the MMMO embedded with his unit -- right on the South Lawn, ready to defend the White House to the last man and, probably, die in the attempt; Graham and the rest of his cronies had escaped D.C. and fled to safety, probably either the "Doomsday" Boeing jet that Graham would have had to board from Joint Base Andrews, or that place at Mount Weather, Virginia that The 700 Club said had been turned into a vacation spot for politicians and other VIPs.

Instead, he got orders from the commanding officer in the theatre -- an Army Colonel holed up in the Capitol building -- to send his men to defend the Office of the Mayor of Washington, D.C. The surprise in his voice wasn't lost on the morale officer, who admonished him for "questioning authority" and a "lack of faith" in his commanding officers. Connors ignored him, as usual, and kept to himself the profanities he was thinking for having to keep this dipshit alive: the Moral Majority division of the FBI was notorious for finding ways to make any officer who was less than fully enthusiastic and appreciative of God's people doing the Lord's work in the military, whenever and whererever, including when unkillable robots were running amok.

Looking up in the sky, Connors saw more of those damned Colonial jets. There were two very different types that obviously had control of the air over D.C. -- he hadn't seen a friendly jet since the shooting started -- and very different from the Viper jet fighters and the Raptor attack helicopters the pagans normally used. One could be best described as a 'flying wing', the other like a buzzard with its wings stretched forward like it was a kamikaze Superman about to dive down and in for the kill.

"I wonder if those bastards got the President and the rest of them," Connors said, leery of the brief respite from fighting. He looked around from his men's position on 14th St NW, behind the White House Visitor Center, and saw soldiers everywhere: behind him, in front of the Bauer Building and Trade Center; to his left down 14th, behind the Hoover and Department of Commerce buildings; and to his right, in Freedom Plaza and Pershing Park.

"Joshua one-nine," the morale monitor chirped up, before proceeding to quote the first chapter and the ninth verse of the Old Testament book of Joshua. "Remember your position, Sergeant. You are a leader."

"No shit," Connors said. That would probably get him a demerit, which meant diddly-shit in the life-and-death situation they were all in.

"Watch your language, Sergeant. Ephesians 4:29: 'do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your--"

Connors clamped his palm over the monitor's mouth when he heard a explosion off in the distance towards the White House, then pulled his communicator out of his jacket with his free hand. "What the hell was that?", he yelled, hearing automatic fire in the same direction. Then, there was a flash that briefly blinded both men and everyone else in the vicinity.

When his vision returned a few seconds later, Connors realized he still had his communicator to his ear. "Sitrep! Sitrep!" The situation had already devolved to the point where unit commanders had ditched proper communications protocol in favor of simply being able to talk to one another in the field.

"Reading you five by five," said the voice in the earpiece clamped tightly to Connors' right ear. "The Borg have warped in. Metal Goliath's blown 34, heading towards the den. Stand by." The flash meant another one of those ships had jumped in, and the robots had blown up the Eisenhower building -- the smoke trail rising in the distance confirmed that -- and they were headed right for the White House. He was a fan of the Metal Goliath cartoons put out by CBN when he was a kid, watching them take down Satanists, Colonials, Japanese, Euros and Canadians week after week. Nothing in the cartoons nor in the Spire and Thomas Nelson-backed comic books prepared him for the real metal goliaths marching through D.C.

"Stand by?", Connors muttered, his left hand still clamped over the morale officer's mouth. He shoved his communicator back in his jacket and let go of the idiot, then reached for the M27 in front of him.

"Wh-what did they say?", the morale monitor stuttered. "What's going on over there?" Connors could still smell the shit-stained stench off the back of the man's khakis.

"They said wait, but we're heading towards the 'den'." Connors looked to the rest of his unit, which had picked up stragglers from another unit mostly decimated in the fighting at the monument. "Bastards are at the White House. We're going there too. On me." Connors ran out from behind the abandoned Nissan Altima he was using as a sort-of-shelter, and his men followed right behind.

The monitor sprinted to catch up to the sergeant. "Sir, I must protest. Your orders were to 'stand by'. That does not mean 'leave your post'." Connors glanced at the man briefly, then resumed his pace. Other units were starting to move forward, towards the fighting, and Connors's unit quickly formed the third line of seven headed towards the White House.

"I will have you written up, Sergeant. This is a clear violation of--"

Connors stopped, his men stopping behind him, as soldiers in the other units moved forward. He grabbed the monitor by the throat. "I'm going to tell you this once, so listen," he growled. "Here, I'm God. Not you. Not the man in the sky. Me. When I give an order you obey. Never question me or bother me with your bullshit ever again."

He let go of the monitor, leaving the man gasping for air, then looked back at his men. "What the fuck you standin' around for? GO!"

"Kick some toaster ass!" one of the stragglers yelled, but the rest of Connors' unit kept silent. Their boss expected results, not yelling.

As the unit crossed into Pershing Park in front of the Sherman monument, they saw a massive explosion in the direction of the White House. Moments later, Connors saw American soldiers running towards him and his unit. "FALL BACK!" they shouted. "GO."

Connors grabbed one of the retreating soldiers -- the morale monitor, annoyingly, was still by his side -- as the soldier ran past, and turned the kid to look him in the eye. "Why the order to fall back, soldier?", he yelled.

The soldier, an 18-year-old draftee, was as poised as a scared kid in his position could be. "They blew up the White House, sir," he replied. "H-hundreds of ours dead. Enemy's all over the place. My C.O. told us to retreat."

"Retreat where?"

"East, down Pennsylvania Avenue."

"The battle's lost?"

"A-affirmative. Sir."

Jesus. "Where's your C.O. now?"

"Dead. One of those goliaths blew his brains out after he issued that order."

"The rest of your unit?"

"Scattered, or dead...I lost track--"

"You're with me, now." Connors looked at the other men in his unit. "We're heading back, down Pennsylvania Avenue." Down Pennsylvania, towards the Capitol building. "Go!"

"NO! WE FIGHT!", the morale monitor screamed, holding his Baretta pistol in the air. "JOSHUA 1:9! DEUTERONOMY 20:1 THROUGH--"

Connors kicked the monitor below the belt, and looked at his newest straggler. "Confiscate this man's weapon, and pull him with you. If he offers any resistance, shoot the son of a bitch."

"Sir?"

"Did I stutter, Private?"

"No sir," the private said, and grabbed the dazed (and hurting) morale monitor by the arm. Neither had trouble keeping up with the rest of Connors' unit, as they raced to reach some kind of fall-back position, before the enemy could beat them there.

Part Six
25 days ago
Naval Air Station Jacksonville
Jacksonville, Florida, U.S.A.
10:02 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

U.S. Air Force 1st Lieutenant Jaclyn “Converse” Brown walked along the revetment where the F-15C Eagle fighter jets assigned to the 1st Fighter Squadron were currently parked.

The 1st Fighter Squadron was deactivated a few years back by President Sarah Palin, and then reactivated after Lindsey Graham took office and given a new mission: being part of America’s first-line defense against “international aggression” which in practice meant Canadians, Colonials, British and anyone else on the current regime’s enemy list.

Brown was one of 117 female pilots in the USAF, an accomplishment she owed as much to the women’s movement as to her own skill. Brown grew up in Clearwater, Florida, a town long-taken over by the west coast-based Calvary Chapel, to the point where it was nicknamed Costa Mesa East. Her family was working-class, and gave their daughter a work ethic that — along with her natural charm — got her to the front door of where she wanted to be.

But as she entered college, Brown’s America was mostly white, still ruled mostly by men and almost completely Christian. There was still sizable African-American, Hispanic and Asian minorities throughout the country — again, almost exclusively Christian — and several prominent Christian women had fought to restore, and even grow, the work done by their heathen sisters in the ‘60s and ‘70s.

Brown was one of the beneficiaries of these particular women’s work. She wanted more than anything to be a pilot, and the Air Force opened up an opportunity just in time for her to apply for flight training. She sent an e-mail to President Palin that the chief executive saw and answered and before Brown knew it, the University of Florida freshman was on a plane for Colorado Springs — not to work as a secretary at Focus on the Family, but to attend the Air Force Academy. She overcame every obstacle put in her way and graduated with honors.

Palin brought Brown and the other 26 women in her graduating class to the White House Rose Garden for a photo-op, and Brown immediately went back west for Initial Flight Training in Pueblo, Colorado. Passing IFT with flying colors, Brown then went to Oklahoma for Specialized Undergraduate Pilot Training, and afterwards was assigned to Columbus Air Force Base in Mississippi….as a Weapons Systems Officer, known informally as a rear pilot or ‘guy/girl in back’.

The geniuses around her thought the ‘girl in back’ jokes wrote themselves, but she had the last laugh. Brown’s value showed when she was called upon during US military actions in northern Mexico, Haiti and Guyana; when the veteran pilot she had been the GIB suddenly retired to care for his sick wife, Brown was a certainty to become the USAF’s fifth female lead pilot.

Instead, Graham won the Presidential race and, politics being what they are, she was put into the GIB seat for a cocky, white, heterosexual, straight male pilot who became famous on the news channels for killing four Brazilian fighters in support of Venezuelan forces.

And that’s how Captain Paul “Kodak” O’Leary got stuck with Jaclyn Brown.

O’Leary — named Kodak for a picture of him wearing an ugly yellowish shirt with the Kodak corporate logo at a campus ministry retreat — was one of the youngest captains in USAF history, and enjoyed the confidence of the men who ran the Air Force. A devout evangelical Christian, O’Leary was married to Taylor, who like Brown had gone through the Academy, but on a different track: she was a MMMO, seeing it as a way to serve next to her husband and as a venue for ministry and evangelism.

Brown spied O’Leary in the distance, looking over their ‘bird’: an Eagle 15-C, as was his custom around this time of day six days a week (except for Sundays). They got along well enough, but there was some tension in their working relationship — she was single, perfectionistic and opinionated, and O’Leary felt pressure from his wife on account of Brown being around him more than she herself was.

Then, there was the tension in the air from something else, that affected everybody: the prospect of war. Not the one-sided attacks on smaller Central and South American countries, but full-on war with nations that could go punch-for-punch with the U.S., and if things spiraled out of control, nuke it out of existence.

“Penny for your thoughts?”, Brown said, dressed in her flight duty uniform and wearing her unsanctioned Converse sneakers.

“I’m worried,” said O’Leary, also wearing his flight duty uniform, and officially sanctioned footwear.

“The Colonies?”

“Yeah. The morale officers, they…they downplay everything, tell us this’ll be another Sinaloa or Qatar or Ghana…Taylor says the same thing.”

“Except it’s not.”

“Except it’s not,” he said. “You know Guru’s really concerned. If he’s concerned, the big brass have to be, too. You hear the scuttlebutt?”

“You mean like they strip naked and have orgies in front of every single one of their gods, on pay-per-view?”

O’Leary chuckled. “Don’t let Taylor hear you say that,” he said. “She thinks it’ll be like the Patriots lining up against some bad Conference USA team.”

“Sorry, not a sports ball person,” Brown said, with a smile.

“I’d call you a heathen for saying that, but they’re just as crazy about pyramid as we are about football…no, I meant that if there is a war, we might get deployed to one of the Carrier Groups.”

Brown pondered that for a moment. “We’re in the mix.”

“We are, and Guru says we’d likely get sent right in the line of fire. Caprica City, Picon, maybe that big naval base on Virgon where they could attack the east coast….you been praying about all this, right?”

Brown wasn’t the praying type, at all, and very much kept that inclination to herself. “You pray about this?”

“Yeah. I feel a little better, but not much….you didn’t hear me say this, but I’d rather the U.N. get both sides to settle up. We go to war, Jac…I’m pretty sure we’ll meet the Lord sooner than we expect. How are you doing with all this, Converse? What impression do you get when you pray?”

She was glad he phrased his question in that particular way.

“I get the impression I…expect to get when I pray,” she said. “I’m good. We’re pilots, professionals. We do our duty. We go to war with the Colonials, we fly, we fight, and we go out there to win.”

“Yeah…you’re right,” he said, turning his head to look at their bird. “She looks good.”

“She does.”

Far away, but close enough to see them with binoculars, Taylor looked at them while listening in on their conversation, via the bug placed on the nose of the fighter jet. Whether out of concern for her husband, her marriage or her country, Taylor O’Leary was willing to do things few Morale Monitors would do.

God help whomever got in her way.

I'll reformat everything later.